


Monsoon Season

by peevee



Category: Black Narcissus (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28433478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: “In another life, we said.”“In another life. I thought of you often,” he admitted, tilting his head and looking up at her through his dark eyelashes. His eyes were more beautiful than she had remembered, and she reached out to touch his face with her chilled, trembling fingers.
Relationships: Sister Clodagh|Catherine/Mr. Dean
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	Monsoon Season

**Author's Note:**

> So, listen, I watched the new TV adaptation of Black Narcissus, and I can't be the only one who thought that its horny energy was too much to contain. So. Get some, Catherine. 
> 
> If anyone knows the source material better than me and knows if Mr. Dean has a canonical name, let me know!

It was the beginning of the monsoon season when Catherine returned to Mopu. And Catherine she was once again, her hair falling free to her shoulders, the cool winds whipping it about her face as her horse stepped nimbly up that winding path that led from the valley to the high pass.

She had sent no letter, nor any word of her arrival, fearing that her nerve might fail her before she even left Darjeeling. Perhaps Mr. Dean had moved, or even married! It had been three years, after all, since she had last set foot on his doorstep. Since she had told him that they might yet meet again, in another life. 

It was almost true, Catherine supposed. She was not Sister Clodagh any longer; that life had been cast off and left behind, and here she was, drawn back by some smouldering ember of desire that could not be extinguished. _Licentious_ , Sister Adela had called her, and Catherine had to admit that it was not quite love that had brought her back to Mopu. 

Night was drawing in as their small caravan finally approached the little village, and with the approaching darkness came the first fat drops of rain that promised shortly to turn into a deluge. It might have been wise to rest in the village and make herself presentable in the morning, but Catherine could not bring herself to delay any further, only stopping for long enough to pay her guides and draw her oilcloth cape about her shoulders. Her heart beat in her chest with a rhythm that matched the heavy rain, and she urged her horse onwards so that they might arrive before full dark. In the distance, the high mountains loomed like monstrous white ghosts.

It was only when she found herself standing once more on his doorstep that Catherine hesitated, her hand hovering against the wood of his door. It was ridiculous, that she had come expecting welcome after all these years. It was ridiculous to think that he would even _remember_ her. She almost pulled her hand back when her horse gave a stamp and a whinny, and moments later Mr. Dean was pulling the door open and staring at her in open astonishment. 

“ _Clodagh_?” he said, incredulous.

“Hello, Mr. Dean,” said Catherine. She was suddenly very aware of how bedraggled she must look; she was soaked near-through despite the oilcloth, and trembling with cold and weariness. His hair still had that charming little curl to it, and his smile was just as warm as it ever had been; she flushed just to look at him. The temptation to fall straight into his arms was very great, but the village boy that had accompanied her still stood waiting by the horse. Catherine pulled back her hood. 

“May I come in?”

“I…” said Mr. Dean, still clearly taken aback. “Yes! Yes, of course. Of course, Sister Clodagh.”

“Catherine,” Catherine corrected him. She watched as his eyes darted from her face to her hair, and down to her clothing, which was decidedly not a habit.

“Catherine,” he said. “Please, come in. Are these your things?” He gestured to the laden horse, already stepping out from under the shelter of his porch to gather her bags, and she rummaged in her cloth purse for coins to pay the boy with.

And then, with her things piled up inside and the village boy sent back down the mountainside, Catherine stood before Mr. Dean and did not know what to say to him. 

“Clodagh -” he began, then stumbled over his words, “Catherine. I didn’t ever expect to see you again.”

“In another life, we said.”

“In another life. I thought of you often,” he admitted, tilting his head and looking up at her through his dark eyelashes. His eyes were more beautiful than she had remembered, and she reached out to touch his face with her chilled, trembling fingers. 

“Mr. Dean -”

“Andrew,” he said, his hand coming up to hold hers against his face. “It’s Andrew. Catherine -”

She kissed him. 

At the touch of her lips to his, some wild energy arced between them and it was barely any time at all before she was opening her mouth wantonly, and Andrew was hauling her against him with a desperate groan. The roughness of his beard, the hot press of his body against hers made her weak with want, and she clutched at him gracelessly, trying to pull him closer to try to satisfy the growing ache that swelled within her. She could feel his manhood pressing thick and hard against her belly, and she hitched her leg high around his waist to grind herself against it. There was a purity to her want of him, and she could not think of it as sinful. It was, perhaps, why she had failed, in her previous life. Sister Clodagh could not hope to coexist in any sort of harmony with the knowledge of such desire. 

They did not speak, only pausing in their desperate kissing to throw aside her cloak and push her skirt up around her hips until she was exposed quite indecently to his hungry gaze. Catherine only spread her legs wider and watched as he opened his trousers just enough to draw himself out, already shining with need for her. He pressed the blunt head of his prick against her and rubbed it back and forth, over where she was most sweetly sensitive and so wet for him that she ached. She met his eyes, not able to hide the intensity of her desire any more than she could stop the monsoon rains that poured down outside, and when he thrust himself fully into her she let herself cry out loud with the pleasure of it. 

He was thick and utterly satisfying inside her, and he moved with a slow indulgence that had her legs shivering where they had drawn up to clutch at his waist. 

“Christ, Catherine,” he said thickly. “I’m going to embarrass myself.”

Far from any discouragement, the thought of him spilling his seed inside her excited her more, and she pulled at his shoulders to encourage him, her body alight with sensation. And as he gasped and shoved himself inside her, she tugged roughly at her dress so as to expose her breasts to him. He groaned at the sight of them, needing no encouragement to apply his mouth to her exquisitely sensitive nipples.

“ _Andrew_ ,” she gasped. “Oh, don’t stop, don’t stop -!”

But he was not stopping, only shifting his weight so that he could more easily suck at her breasts and touch her at the peak of where they were joined. His fingers were slippery with her desire and he rubbed her in a quick little rhythm that made her whole body tighten and arch and - finally - break into such spasming pleasure that she couldn’t breathe, the thick weight of his prick thrusting inside her drawing it on and on until she barely had any control over her body, and speech was beyond her entirely.

It was only then that he pressed his face to her neck and gave a cracked moan as he reached his own peak, and Catherine thought that she could feel the hot spill of him inside her, and she shuddered and felt her hunger for him gape and yawn.

She could barely make herself release him, and as he slid out of her she moaned and shuddered, but instead of rolling away from her he simply propped himself on one elbow beside her and eased his fingers between her legs. 

“Catherine,” he murmured, his eyes gleaming. “How wanton you are.”

“ _Oh_ -” she said, as his clever fingers stroked her slowly, all the way up the slit of her sex and all the way back down. She let one of her knees fall sideways, opening herself to him, but he only continued his slow stroking, up, down, up, down, his fingers sliding easily between the folds of her.

“Andrew,” she gasped, having no other words but his name like a prayer upon her tongue, and soon she could feel that rise of electric sensation within her body again, drawn there inexorably by Andrew’s touch, by his gentle mouth sucking first at one of her nipples, then the other, then at her neck, his fingers never slipping inside as she desperately wanted. She writhed under him, caught as he brought her to the edge of her pleasure, then just as she tipped over it he twisted to slide his fingers up and into her and she sobbed as she spasmed around them.

Catherine was barely sensate when Andrew shoved impatiently at her skirt once more and leaned down to put his mouth on her. She gasped and jerked, but his tongue was so sweetly gentle that it could have been the air itself licking at her; he mouthed at her with all the tender indulgence of a kiss, and Catherine sighed and gave herself over to the feel of it.

Finally, he raised his head to rest it on her thigh, and she lifted her hand to stroke through his soft hair as he looked up at her. His beard gleamed wet in the candlelight.

“I dreamed of this,” she said eventually.

“Oh, did you indeed?”

“Mm,” she said. “I brought myself pleasure, thinking of you. Thinking of this.” She stroked her fingers over his mouth, giving a breathless little laugh when he flicked his tongue out playfully. “Does that shock you?”

“Everything you've said and done this evening has shocked me. I'm still in a state of shock. I can barely believe that you’re here.”

“I found that I could not leave things as they were, between us. You were so often in my thoughts.”

“And you in mine,” said Andrew. He hauled himself up to recline beside her, both of them still mostly dressed in their ruined clothes. Catherine could not find it within herself to care; not when he looked at her with such a light in his eyes. 

“Your hair is very beautiful like that,” he said. “Can I touch it?”

At that, she threw her head back and laughed. “Yes,” she said. “Yes. You may touch any part of me you wish.”


End file.
